


Slow Dance I thru III

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-04-15
Updated: 2001-04-15
Packaged: 2018-11-20 08:39:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11332275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: A rendezvous in a nightclub: business, pleasure, or both? Part 1: Mulder's POV, Part 2: Scully's POV, Part 3: Krycek's POV.





	Slow Dance I thru III

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Slow Dance 1: Mulder by Katherine F.

Title: "Slow Dance 1: Mulder" M/K  
Author: Katherine F.  
Disclaimer: We don' need no steenkin' deesclaimer...  
Spoilers: ummm...Terma?  
Feedback: YES!   
Archive/distribution: OK to Archive/X, TER/MA, and All Things Rat. Others please ask.  
Summary: A rendezvous in a nightclub: business, pleasure, or both? Mulder's POV.  
Notes: Song lyrics from "Filmstar" by Suede. All musical opinions expressed in this story are those of the characters and not the author. Inspired by "Devil's Cup" by J.C. Sun.

* * *

"Slow Dance 1: Mulder"  
by Katherine F.

Why here, and why now, and why under these circumstances? I'd like to know. I really would. But to ask the question --that would be to admit that I don't understand him, and that I *want* to understand him. I could talk about profiles and learning the mind of a killer, but I can't risk him hearing the lie in my voice. I can't risk him believing me either.

I wish I knew when I became so proficient at these mind-games.

I haven't been to a club like this for years; haven't ever been for my own recreation. Not my style, really. It's all hard edges and irony and fashionable skeletons in the latest from Comme Des Garcons. In my jeans and leather jacket, I feel like a geek for the first time since high school. 

I ignore the stares of the other patrons -- didn't their mothers tell them it's rude? -- and scope out the dance floor. Scully is on the other side, looking elegant and uncomfortable in green silk. She's sipping something which looks like mineral water from here. It might be vodka. It might be gin. 

She's not happy about this. Well, that's all right. Neither am I.

The music changes from incomprehensible electronica to incomprehensible death metal. My feet are getting itchy. Where is he? He'd better show up damn soon. 

Just to keep from smashing things, I order a drink; mineral water, which is served with kumquat slices. Whatever. The lights are multicoloured and unpredictable, and dim enough that I can't be sure I haven't missed him.

Christ, I hate waiting.

At that he appears, as if he could read my mind.

He fits in perfectly here, dressed in skintight leather pants and a clingy shirt that looks like silk from here. Black, of course. Black is never out of fashion.

He writhes and twists and pounds the floor with the best of them, his movements sinuous and utterly compelling. Despite everything I find myself admiring him, the way he moves, the way his dance and the clothes he wears show off his body to the best possible effect. Even here, in a club full of beautiful bodies beautifully clothed, he attracts the attention of the crowd. Nothing too obvious, of course. Enthusiasm is *so* passe. But heads turn and muted gazes shift towards him. Away, back, away, back. In this crowd, that's like a standing ovation.

I tear my gaze away and catch Scully's eye. She's seen him. Time to make a move.

The music changes again. For a moment I think it's David Bowie, but then the vocal kicks in and I hear it for what it is: some third rate no-talent imitator. Krycek seems to like it, though.

There's something wrong with the way he's moving --

But I don't have time to figure it out before he's grabbed my hand and pulled me onto the floor. He drapes his right arm around my waist and whispers,

"Dance!"

and I dance.

It's nothing like as elegant as his dancing. I *can't* dance like that, much as I like to pretend when there's nobody else in the room. But hey, this is slow dancing, and all you need to do in a slow dance is face your partner and sway, right?

Slow dance. Shit. What does this look like? What the hell is he doing?

He shifts a little, his left hand at the back of my neck, and I realise what was wrong with his movements before; this arm and hand are new, the skin too soft...he isn't used to it. And before I can even begin to speculate as to how he came across a brand shiny new arm, he's whispering again, his mouth close to my ear. I can feel his breath. I can *hear* him. That shouldn't be possible.

"In a minute, I'm going to kiss you," he says. "Just thought I'd let you know."

I move my head back an inch or two and whisper back, "What is this about, Krycek? What the hell is going on?"

"You'll see." And he begins to dance again, swaying against me, never moving far enough away to let me regain my composure. There is a riot of sensations assaulting me: the faint pressure of his hand on my waist, the smell of his hair, the heat of his body and the bodies around us, the pounding of the music...

The music. Yes, focus on the music. Whiny vocals and relentless guitar...

**filmstar an elegant sir in a terylene shirt tonight**

Krycek pulls away from me and strikes a pose, mouthing to the lyrics.

**what to believe in? it's impossible to say what to believe in when they change your name wash your brain play the game again**

There's a glitter in his eyes, a faint curve to his mouth. If the lyrics of the song weren't so weirdly apposite, I'd think he was making fun of me. I'm willing to bet that the DJ here takes requests.

And then he's all over me like a cheap suit, both arms around my waist, his mouth licking and nibbling a path from my left ear to my chin. I want this, oh yes, I want it, but not now, not here, not with Scully and these children of Warhol watching us. What the *hell* is he --

A tongue slips in between my lips. I'd like to stand firm and keep them glued together, but I've been thinking about this for far too long and I can't even pretend I'm not enjoying it. Lips and teeth and a tongue winding around mine and his hands creeping under my jacket to rest at the small of my back, and ohgod I want to say *go lower*, I want him to do it without being told, I want to grind myself up against him as if there was nobody watching.

His hand slides down into my back pocket and out again, the movement too quick and purposeful to be mistaken for a caress. Is that all this is, then, a simple exchange of information, a name or a date on a piece of cardboard? I can't tell if I'm glad or disappointed.

And he's still kissing me. The bastard is still kissing me.

His tongue withdraws briefly, then comes back; only this time there's something on it, something small and round and hard. He pushes it deep into my mouth and breaks the kiss. I'm breathing hard, but so is he. 

He leans forward, his mouth on my ear again. "Swallow," he says, his voice a soft buzz under the whine of the music, and I do. 

"Now get out of here," he says, "and take Scully with you. Back exit. And talk in the alley; your car's bugged." He flicks the lobe once with his tongue and withdraws as the music changes. I can't stop myself from reaching for him, for another dance or another kiss or some explanation of what just happened; but he melts into the crowd as easily as a vampire dissolving into mist.

I shake myself and turn towards Scully. Her face is blank and her eyes are cold. I can tell that she wants some kind of explanation of what's just happened.

I just wish I could give it to her.

[end]

\--  
Katherine F.  
Acolyte, Church of Alex Krycek  
[website address given by author no longer valid -- archivist]  
Today's Quote: "Ray, the next time somebody asks you if you're a god, you say YES!" -- dialogue, _Ghostbusters_

 

* * *

 

Title: "Slow Dance 2: Scully"  
Author: Katherine F.  
Disclaimer: We don' need no steenkin' deesclaimer...  
Archive/distribution: OK to Archive/X, TER/MA and All Things Rat; all others please ask.  
Spoilers: "Anasazi", "Emily".  
Feedback: is welcomed, loved and deeply desired.   
Summary: A rendezvous in a nightclub: business, pleasure, or both? Scully's POV.  
Notes: Inspired by "Devil's Cup" by J.C. Sun. Companion piece to "Slow Dance 1: Mulder". Hugs and kisses to everyone who asked for more; you know who you are...

* * *

"Slow Dance 2: Scully"  
by Katherine F.

Krycek advised us to arrive separately, so here I am, all alone in this Godforsaken hellhole trying not to think about how fat I feel. I haven't worn this dress in months. I don't even remember why I bought it; some official function, no doubt, a conference or a dinner which required that I be formal. I don't have my badge, and I feel naked without it. I do, however, have my gun, neatly stowed in a purse specifically designed to store weapons.

Gives a whole new meaning to the phrase "feminine protection".

But, god, this place...I want to be with Mulder so that we can laugh at it together and I can feel like myself again, myself-the-FBI-agent, not that gawky teenager with braces on her teeth and no breasts who made a fool of herself at the summer dance. It's stupid. We're here -- well, I'm here -- to meet Alex Krycek, a murderer and a liar, who *may* be willing to help us with a problem so vast that it needs us to set aside some of our scruples about dealing with him. And what am I thinking about? The way I look in green? Christ, my priorities are screwed.

I need a drink.

I walk to the bar and order a vodka. I feel like saying "vodka martini, shaken not stirred", but the barman is this elegant and superior creature with burgundy fingernails and cheekbones sharp as razors, and the sight of him shatters my nerve. I find myself blushing and stammering, and when I pass him the money my hand is damp with sweat.

I was nervous enough before I came here. A meeting with Krycek, hell, that's enough to make anyone with half a brain at least a little jumpy. But why did he have to choose *this* of all places? 

A sip of the hard stuff calms me down a little, even as Dr Scully notes that it's probably just the placebo effect. And I begin to see the point of this meeting place, if not this meeting. The music is loud enough to make bugging difficult, the lights dim and variable enough to confuse cameras; maybe not enough to fool someone who knew you, but enough to make a stranger hesitate. Say what you like about Krycek, you can't call him stupid.

Mulder comes in, looking twitchy and suspicious. I catch his eye, briefly, then look away. It won't be long now, surely?

The song changes to something loud and fast and then the crowd parts ever-so-slightly and *he* is there.

He looks -- well, I hate to admit it, but he looks *amazing*. He takes the floor as if he was born to it, winks and smiles at the other patrons...dances. Oh, how he dances. I'd say he could give lessons except I don't think that kind of grace can be taught. He makes me think of animals; panthers and diamondbacks, the kind of animal you would thank for eating you alive. 

I take another sip and watch him closely. Oh, but he's so *into* it -- Did he look like this when he killed Mulder's father? Did he have the same elegance, the same knife-edge *focus*, when he watched my sister fall? But I'm just trying to distract myself, and it isn't working. He's beautiful. That's all there is to it.

He turns, briefly, in the quiet moment when one song overlaps the next and the dancers are getting their breath back, and -- maybe I'm imagining it, maybe -- it's dark, I could be mistaken, but --I could swear he *winks* at me.

My throat goes dry, my eyes wide. I glance at Mulder and he gives me the shadow of a nod. He sees that Krycek's here, but I can't tell if he sees what I see. I want to signal him somehow. Warn him. Tread softly; here be monsters!

They are dancing now, the two of them, arms around each other. I hold in my head the image of Melissa, an inch away from death; and of Emily being consumed from the inside, nothing I could do for her but let her die; I think of all the pain and death and destruction this man has caused; and just now, it doesn't matter. Because it's *right* that they should dance like this, close and slow and just a little bit awkward, it's right and it's beautiful.

When they kiss it doesn't even surprise me that I'm not surprised. I have to bite down to keep from crying at the wonder of it. When the kiss breaks I let out a breath I didn't realise I was holding. 

I finish my drink and breathe deeply, composing myself. Mulder looks dazed. I form my face into a mask. He doesn't know. He doesn't understand. Oh, Mulder...

I'm going to have to tell him. I don't know how but I need to let him know just what it is he's done here, maybe without even realising it. You want to feast with panthers, Mulder? You'd better sup with a gun in your hand. Alex Krycek is a dangerous enemy but just think how much more dangerous he'd be as a friend. Or more.

Oh, Mulder. Would there be any point in warning you, or is your head already in the panther's mouth?

[end]

\--  
Katherine F.  
Acolyte, Church of Alex Krycek  
[website address given by author no longer valid -- archivist]  
Today's Quote: "Of course ninety per cent of science fiction is crud. That's because ninety per cent of everything is crud." -- Theodore Sturgeon

 

* * *

 

Title: "Slow Dance 3: Krycek"  
Author: Katherine F.  
Disclaimer: We don' need no steenkin' deesclaimer...  
Archive/distribution: OK to Archive/X, TER/MA, and All Things Rat; others please ask.  
Spoilers: A few very minor ones. Ignore them and they'll go away.  
Feedback:   
Summary: A rendezvous in a nightclub: business, pleasure, or both? Krycek's POV.  
Notes: Companion piece to "Slow Dance 1: Mulder" and "Slow Dance 2: Scully". Inspired by "Devil's Cup" by J.C. Sun. Song lyrics from "Filmstar" by Suede.

* * *

"Slow Dance 3: Krycek"  
by Katherine F.

Here they come, the Beautiful Ones...

I love this place. Every single person who comes here has got totally wacko ideas of what constitutes acceptable behaviour. They don't mind if you snort coke at a wedding as long as you don't do it on the mahogany table. They don't care if you're a killer as long as you're not a nerd. Naturally, I fit right in. 

It makes my skin crawl to think of the creatures that could be hiding in the corners waiting for me to make a mistake. I'm toast if I show the slightest sign of *wrongness*, whether it's a hint that I know I'm being watched or something to make Them believe that I'm not here for pleasure. Well...not entirely for pleasure, anyway.

So I'm going to do what I always do when I come here. I'll dance, schmooze, turn heads, and pick some likely prospect off the floor for a little more-or-less-innocent bump and grind. The fact that tonight's prospect happens to be Fox Mulder may well be a spark added to a very dry powder keg, but hopefully he and Scully will be out of here by the time this place goes kaboom.

I can't count on his survival skills (what survival skills?) getting him out of here alive, which is why I asked her along. Never mind the fact that if I hadn't asked her, she'd probably have come anyway.

And I have to admit, the thought of...doing what I'm going to do...with her watching is somewhat intriguing. 

I watch them arrive from a dim corner beside the DJ's cage. First Scully, all stiff elegance in a green dress that doesn't really suit her, then Mulder in jeans and leather, both of them looking twitchy. How gratifying to have such an effect on people. 

The music changes and I'm dancing before I even realise it. It's something I don't recognise, not that that matters; it's loud and it's fast and it *pounds*. And I dance, just like I always do; but underneath it there's an edge of awareness that isn't always there. I smile and wink at the regulars, the ones who know my favourite bands and what I like to drink when the night begins, and I wonder: is she? Is he?

It could be any one of them. Hell, it could be all of them. I won't know until the transaction has been completed, if then. I tongue the chip briefly, encased as it is in plastic and safely positioned between my gum and lower lip. 

It's time.

I pause briefly between songs, to find myself facing Scully. She looks cool, like she always does, even when she's angry, and I have to wonder what's going on behind that perfect mask of a face. And I wink at her, just to put her off balance, and turn back to the task at hand.

When Mulder puts his glass down, I grab his hand and pull him onto the dance floor. He's stiff and awkward; he wasn't expecting this. I whisper "Dance!", my lips so close to his ear they're practically touching it. Oh, that little tremor that runs through him...and suddenly I'm glad it's dark and he can't see the hunger in my eyes. 

We dance, close and slow like lovers, like teenagers at the prom, like people who have no reason to hate each other. We dance, and I stroke his neck briefly with my new left hand. The skin there is still sensitive and the feel of his against mine is enough to make me gasp, but I clench my teeth on it. Control. I am in control.

I shift us closer to the center of the floor and whisper into his ear, "In a minute I'm going to kiss you. Just thought I'd let you know."

He doesn't like that. He stiffens and draws back as much as my arms will let him. "What is this about, Krycek?" he whispers furiously. "What the hell is going on?"

I smile, even though he can't see it. "You'll see," I say, and keep on dancing.

For a while I can let myself drift a little, focusing on these sensations: heat, sound, the slight vibration of the floor, his movements against me. What a temptation it all presents. It would be so very easy to close my eyes and lose myself in this dance, as if we really *were* lovers. 

Instead I keep them open and listen to the music -- oh, "Filmstar", very nice. Very apt. When the second chorus comes around I can't resist; I have to rub Mulder's nose in it.

**what to believe in? it's impossible to say what to believe in when they change your name wash your brain play the game again**

He looks like he knows what I'm getting at. He looks like he wishes he didn't. He's beautiful when he's conflicted.

And then...well, it's a good thing this was part of the plan, because I can't keep my hands off him. I lick a path down his cheek and jaw, savouring the taste of his skin and the rough texture of stubble, and then the slight resistance as I lick gently past his lips. C'mon, Foxy boy, don't fuck up the plan, don't pretend you don't want this...but the resistance doesn't last and we're soon kissing for real. 

Sweet. He tastes sweet. I always thought he'd taste like salt, like those seeds he never stops chewing, but he tastes sweet and faintly spicy. 

I can't hear the groans he's making -- he probably can't hear them himself -- but I can feel them, deep drawn-out vibrations that send shudders down my spine and a jolt to my cock. I can feel it beginning to get hard. I'd like to rub it against his, just to see how he'd react: with a yelp or a sigh, an arched back or a sensuous reciprocation? Some other time, my curiosity will be satisfied. Right now I have business to attend to.

Putting the card in his back pocket is easy, and it seems to pull him back to reality somewhat. I keep my mouth on his, my tongue twined with his, but he's not responding with quite the same enthusiasm. Shame. Still, it makes it easier to disengage and push the chip into his mouth. 

I've had my mouth glued to his and I'm out of breath; but then, so is he. I move my mouth close to his ear, so close he must feel the word before he hears it.

"Swallow."

His Adam's apple bobs up and down, an enticing sight. I'll see it again some day, and it won't be a microchip he'll be swallowing either.

"Now get out of here, and take Scully with you. Back exit. And talk in the alley; your car's bugged." I flick his lobe once with my tongue, just to mix him up a little more, and slip away into a corner, watching them as they leave. Mulder looks bewildered; Scully looks positively shellshocked. But, mademoiselle, didn't you enjoy the cabaret?

Despite myself I smile. Round one to me.

And now the other game begins...

[end]

\--  
Katherine F.  
Acolyte, Church of Alex Krycek  
[website address given by author no longer valid -- archivist]  
Today's Quote: "Does anyone think the Civil War was the least bit civil?" -- Marilyn Manson

  
Archived: 21:37 03/21/01 


End file.
